The Art of Secrets Read Online Free

I’m telling you, an apartment fire is not the story. The real story here is the inspiring
response
to the fire. You want readers to learn about the incredible things taking place in the aftermath of this sad event.
    [Standing and moving toward the door.]
    All right, then? I’m giving you full access. Feel free to wander around and ask any questions you want about the fundraiser next month. That said, I do ask that you avoid putting anyone in an awkward position. Let’s leave Saba out of this. Young people are helpful by nature, and having to say “no” is unpleasant for anybody. I’m sure you understand.
    Too bad it’s so ugly outside. Will you be sending a photographer? Obviously I’d love for you to get some shots of the campus. In a pinch, I might have something you can use—the lagoon in springtime, maybe, surrounded by the orange day lilies, or . . . no? You’re right—you’ll get what you need.
No hurry.
The auction’s more than a month away. Besides, the campus looks spectacular when it’s covered in snow, and we can cross our fingers for that.
    Thanks again for your visit. No, thank
you
!

A bit later, during a passing period, the reporter stops
    Kendra Spoon, sophomore,
    at her locker. On one arm, Kendra balances a tray of sugar cookies decorated with pink icing.
    Yeah, that’s me. If you can hold on a sec . . . ?
    Okay, I’m not sure what to say. I’m more comfortable in a behind-the-scenes, stuffing-envelopes kind of role. I’m not a spokesperson or anything. Maybe you can talk to my brother, Kevin? He’s a senior. Seniors should be in the cafeteria by now. Go that way and turn left at the school seal. You’ll know it when you see it—the big red H on the floor. To me, it looks a little bit like a body outline at a crime scene.
    If I can just say . . . I
like
Saba. No one’s got a problem with Saba. I was on the tennis team with her. And so to me . . . I mean, can you imagine losing everything you have? This family needs help. Someone needs to help them. If we can make sure they’re better off
after
the fire than before—that’s the only way any of this will make sense. We can make this story turn out okay.
    Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but I gotta run to Spanish. We’re having a
fiesta de cumpleaños
for this girl, Kristin. In class, we call her Marta, because that makes perfect sense.
    Do you want a cookie?

Minutes later, in a crowded cafeteria that reeks of grease and disinfectant,
    Kevin Spoon, senior,
    pulls two chairs together so that he may speak at length with the reporter.
    No problem, well, thanks for helping us to promote the fundraiser. The auction date will be December fifteenth, right here at school. That’s a Saturday. It starts at ten in the morning. Obviously, you want to talk to the art teacher—
    Why did I get involved?
    Oh man . . . The thing is, my family relocated here in June. We’re new to Chicago, but not new to the
situation
of being new. My mom sells air. It’s our family joke. Whenever she’s long-winded or going on about some crazy thing, my sister or I will whisper: “
Psst
—Mom sells air.”
    But she really does! She sells commercial ad spots on the radio. You want thirty seconds of air during the morning rush hour? It will cost you.
    My mom is awesome at sales. No joke, Monica Spoon could sell milk to cows. People like her. We’ve lived all over the country, mostly towns, but Chicago’s the big league. The bigger the market, the higher her commission.
    Moving to a new place is never easy, but Kendra and I are pros at it by now. When you’re new, you join all the teams, and you bake the cookies, and you hustle like crazy. And maybe in this case, you help to organize a benefit for a family of complete strangers. You
want
people to
like
you, you know? That’s something my mom always drilled into us.
    Besides, my sister has some